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The sharp bite of the night air can not hope to compare to the ice in the young mans stygian eye. The last days of Mushi kakurete to o fusagu (insects hole up underground) in Yokohama bring with them the promise of long, cold nights in the not too distant future. He doesn't much care for the cold. Pale fingers pluck at the fraying edges of his bandages —long overdue to be changed. Still, his steps fall evenly, hollow whispers along the concrete beneath his black leather shoes.
Moonlight dances playfully over the silky silver strands of the old mans hair as he matches Dazai's stride. It casts his weathered features in a most sympathetic light. His monacle glints with each step, a gentle waltz under the starlight. Dazai thinks he looks ethereal, like some kind of higher being.
Fine white cotton disappears into the shadow of his black duster as Hirotsu retrives his tin of cigarettes with a gloved hand. Theres a smoothness —like water undisturbed, to his movements. The way he places the tighly wrapped stick of tobacco between his lips. The slightly metalic *shhck* from his lighter, drifting into the night air with the first trails of smoke.
Scrunching his nose enough for his cheek to displace his bandages, Dazai pinches the butt of a cigarette from the offered tin. Without a word, the end is met with the flickering of a flame. His first drag burns the whole way down. Setting his lungs on fire. Hair of espresso and syrup falls haphazardly around his head as he casts his one-eyed gaze to the starlit sky. Long, soft lashes, splay out in a fan of ebony over his milky skin as hot, thick smoke swirls in his mouth. The young mafioso toys with it behind his teeth. Allowing it to flow out past his lips slowly, then gently pulling it back in through his nose. The whisps of grey and white, coil and dance before he blows them away, lost to the night. Letting out a resigned sigh, Dazai leads them further towards Suribachi city-
"Oi! Didn't I tell you to quit those damn things?"
A gravelled voice of decadence and promise cuts through the fog of indifference Dazai shetlers himself in. His soul hums to the tune, a melody he's never heard, but has always known.
"Ah, and in what world would I do, what the angry little doggy says hmmm~?" Dazai chirps, dodging the kick Chuuya greets him with. He hops backwards, just out of reach, one hand lazily tucked into his black jacket pocket, cigarette hanging precariously from his lips pulled into a lazy grin.
"Well now. Doesn't this bring back memories Dazai-san?" Hirotsu teases. Eyes glittering with mirth as he steps to the side to avoid getting caught in the crossfire of the mafias two youngest executives.
"I'm not in the habit of dwelling on the past old man." Dazai retorts, voice as light as his feet as he bounds away from his firey tempered partner, keeping himself at a safe distance —Just.
It's intoxicating, better than any of the shit Mori-sensei gives him or any of the sake he replaces his blood with. Being around Chuuya, it's almost enough, to drown out the endless siren-call of death.
Hirotsu watches as both Chuuya and Dazai stop and the bandaged man tips his head slightly, lips pulled into a thin line. He doubts he could ever tire of watching young Dazai work. His brilliant mind and keen eye, the way he and Chuuya seemlessly accomodate eachother. Still, the old man doesnn't much like the look on his superiors face now. The ugliness of the shadows that hang around his visable eye.
Dazai's voice takes an air hostility, "It's awfully quiet."
"Yeah, come to think of it. Can't even hear no rats, those fuckers are always out at night." Chuuya replies and he watches as his partners eye narrows, cutting the night.
"There are most definitely rats here." Dazai mutters, taking a slow, intentional drag of his cigarette. Lightless eye locked on an invisible threat. Like a cat, staring into the darkness at something only it can see.
Chuuya knows Dazai is hiding something. There's a sinking weight in his gut as the red haired mafioso accepts that once again, the bandaged menace is hiding shit from him. Partners for three damn years and the fucker still wont let him in. Gritting his teeth, Chuuya holds his tongue… for now.
****
"You don't know or you just wont tell me?" Chuuya’s voice shakes the room, grip on his temper, failing. Throwing his hands in the air, a mixture of hurt and frustration compelling him further-"You're Dazai fucking Osamu for fucks sake! You always know!"
"I did tell you, Chuuya. I. Don't. Know." Dazais voice is empty. Hollow. Cold. He stares blankly at the ground between his feet.
Somehow, thats worse. Chuuya's throat squeezes around the lump forming there, his skin burns, scorched by the flames of his bleeding heart. In an effort to distract himself, he focuses on the task of taking off all Dazai's old bandages. Pliant and malleable beneath his hands, Chuuya stifles his cough as bile invades his mouth, gut twisting almost violently. It takes him a few breaths to chase away the foulness, his mind not so ready to let go. They've never talked about it, but Chuuya wonders. Just what happens on the nights when he does't crawl back into his gods forsaken shipping container, or wind up here in Chuuyas apartment. He stomps the thoughts down with violent vigour. Burying them somewhere dark and cold.
Dazai listens as Chuuya leaves the room to discard the soiled gauze he had carefully unwrapped from his broken and sickly body. Focuses on the stompy footfalls. Dark waves of chocolately hair curtain his face as he searches for answers in the fibres of the plush rug beneath his feet. Lost in the vast expance of his rotten and filthy mind, Dazai doesn't notice Chuuya return. Doesn't hear his voice change from his usually gruff and sultry cadence to someting softer. His jibes into cooes. Dazai doesn't notice until he feels the branding heat of Chuuyas arms wrap around him. The irregular du-dump of his unusual heart. Dazai doesn't feel himself fall asleep.
****
The mafia executive doesn't like keeping secrets from Dazai. Actually, he rather hates it. But he knows no good would come of it if he knew. So Chuuya keeps quiet. He meets her at different places each time. Uses a seperate phone. Always conceals his appearance. Dr Yosano Akiko of the armed detective agency, sits silently on a park bench under a tree. Its branches decorated in leaves slowly turning all shades of fire and earth. Chuuya sits next to her and waits. Watching as an autumn leaf joins its comrades, their coverage sparse, on the cold, damp ground.
Yosano produces a paper bag from her pocket. "To help him sleep, and if he wont eat."
She regards him with sad, knowing eyes. There are shadows in them, so dark and thick, Chuuya knows the secrets buried there will never find their way to the light. The small bag is surprisingly heavy, the slight crunch of it in his calloused grip, bittersweet. Chuuya nods his silent thanks.
"Something’s about to go down Doc. Something ugly. The slimy bastard was all but catatonic before he passed out." His words taste like bad wine. Vinegary and bitter. —What he wouldn't give to have the Flags right now.— "Whatever it is, it has Dazai in a chokehold."
****
He feigns sleep, long after it abandons him. Rummaging around in every part of his mind. Desperate to find what he's lost. If only he knew what he was looking for.
Crunching beneath his boots, the icy snow of the forest, somewhere in the wilds of Russia. The biting wind, buffeted by the dense woods. His time there had been short, but, impactful. His mission, a success. He had found the rat, after that, all he needed to do was lure him with the promise of cheese.
It had not been his intention, it wasn't part of the plan. Falling into bed with Fyodor Dostoevsky was by far, his biggest mistake.
He's not sure when Chuuya had crawled in beside him, now blissfully asleep. He seeks shelter in the warmth of his stocky form, entangling himself in all that is Chuuya. The quiet rumble of his soft snores, lulling him back into a dreamless slumber.
****
"Oi, shithead. Get your ass up and eat would ya. We got an hour 'fore we gotta see the boss."
" 'm not hungry." Dazai grumbles in response to Chuuya's all too loud declaration.
The sound of Chuuya's bare feet padding through to the kitchen, a soft melody of a song they'll never finish. Hints at a life, quiet and domestic. Humble. Human. Dazai knows better than to let himself entertain such delusions. Dazai Osamu is no man, he is a monster, a malevolent masterpiece lovingly crafted with a scalpel blade.
He sits up, rubbing his hands over his face in attempt to shoo away the groginess of sleep.
Mismatched eyes regard him with far too much softness. Ivory fingers smattered with tiny freckles encircle a reusable tumbler. The transparent cup revealing the wholly unappealing contents. Swirling shades of cream and pink. A thin black straw taunts him from within. Regarding the mildly threatening drink with unabashed concern. Dark eyes staring the plastic cylinder down as though it'll leap out and smother him like in that creepy movie. (Alien.)
"It's a smoothie, Dazai. If you wont eat. Drink. I'm not catching your stubborn ass if you faint." With his usual absence of tact, Chuuya shoves the smoothie at Dazai who has no choice but to take it.
Over his tongue, too thick for his vile mouth, between his teeth, too clean for the words he often spits and past lips, soft and pink, Dazai mutters out a gruff, "thanks."
Chuuya just shrugs then disappears on yet another of his mini-errands. Returning with fresh bandages, skin cleaning wipes and oitment. Eyes of stormy seas and autumn leaves, suffocate Dazai with questions Chuuya will never ask. Not that Dazai would ever answer. He sips intentionally on his surprisingly pleasant smoothie. The flavours are subtle, gentle on the tender meat of his over dramatic tongue. Delightfully smooth and not too thick, Dazai hums subconsciously, a warm, satisfied sound. He doesn't miss the way Chuuya's lips quip up into a fleeting smile before he schools it into neutrality.
Chuuya is well practised in the art of tending to Dazai's marred skin, though he isn't really sure when it started. He knows, aside from the thick lines on Dazai's wrists, these wounds aren't his own doing. The scars from four years ago a horrid reminder of how close they came to never meeting, of how close Dazai was to the freedom he so hopelessly longs for. How different things would be…
The hands gently dressing his skin, still for the briefest of moments. A sinking of his heart, tells the man with coffee coloured hair that his partner has noticed the newest addition to the myriad of horrors decorating his once porcelain skin. The boulder threatening to crush through his ribcage and flatten his black heart, lifts when the mafioso with fire for hair, wordlessly continues his task. Not again drawing attention to the blistered brand on Dazai's shoulder.
With his bandages in place and his hair detangled. Dazai changes into a black suit. It's new, tailored. Showing off his long, lean frame. Since he's started wearing the suits from Kōyō, Mori has been less pacifiable.
Chuuya’s noticed.
In the past 6 months, since his return from a mission he refuses to talk about. Dazai has been getting thinner. His wounds, take longer to heal. Parts of his skin look like its dying and its almost impossible to keep him from getting an infection. The tracks in his veins are long and angry and it makes Chuuya's stomach tie itself in knots. He knows how much Dazai hates pain- how he whimpers in his sleep. Not that sleep is a frequent companion of Dazai Osamu, Chuuya is of half the mind to think thats why Dazai started staying here. How often Chuuya has woken to find Dazai sat on his bedroom floor with files spread everywhere. ("If I'm going to be awake, I may as well be useful and your place is cleaner than mine.") The memory has a funny way of making Chuuya smile. How in his state of bleariness, had invited Dazai to bed. The bastard had made quite the scene, but in the end he had crawled into bed with Chuuya and almost immediately passed out.
He's pulled from his thoughts as he watches Dazai step out of the car with feline grace. He's the pinacle of masculine elegance with an unhealthy level of dangerous mystique. It makes him look more like a rich bad boy, than the so called "demon prodigy". Chuuya feels clumbsy, like a newborn animal still trying to figure out its legs, as he climbs out of the shiny black SUV. There's nothing graceless or clumsy about the way he moves though, Ane-san had made quite sure of that, her merciless training paying off tenfold. It does little to reassure him though, next to Dazai, he always feels like he's somehow lesser. Like he's following Dazai around like a stray dog.
The corridor leading to the boss's luxurious and rather pretentious office, is bright and warm as the late afternoon sun filters in through the stained glass of its massive windows. Chuuya thinks back to the first time he walked through here, how angry they had been with him. The sheep, the first family he can remember having, betrayed by their king. Dazai had pulled a lot of strings to keep them safe, Chuuya still doesn't really know why.
"Thank you, Nakahara-kun, you may wait outside." The port mafia boss purrs, playing with his words as they leave his mouth. There's a subtle sensuality to his cadence. Shamelessly lecherous inflections. It makes Chuuya's skin crawl. Next to him, Dazai softens unnaturally. A recurring theme when the boss is around, it spurs Chuuya onwards, the infernal flame within him, burning violently.
"Yeah. No. I'll wait here thanks." Chuuya retorts, tilting his head, the chain on his hat swinging silently.
Mori raises his brows in surprise, violet eyes growing sharp. "Suit yourself." He muses, resting his chin on the tips of his steepled fingers.
Chuuya's heart is beating so wildly, he barely hears the boss's response. Adrenalin coursing through him with merciless enthusiasm. It isn't until he feels the familar coolness of Dazai's touch, of no-longer human, flowing over his skin- that Chuuya remembers to breathe. Tiny, cold fingertips, like beads of ice that wont melt, press into the back of his neck, just below his choker. Dazai is all but dangling from his own joints draping himself over Chuuya, the human equivalent of a blanket.
His singsong voice fills the air as he spouts off some nonesense about how the short man with fancy hats is the best partner ever. Sharing in the boring meetings and blah blah blah. He isn't listening. Instead, he watches as Mori's eye twitches, slightly at the corner, and how his fingers press into the flesh behind his mandible.
He's angry, and Chuuya is why. Still, the boss entertains Dazai's theatrics. Dark brown hair bouncing as he flails himself about. Then, like a switch being turned off, Dazai Osamu drops his gleeful facade, eye dark and empty. He stands, barely a foot away from the black lacquered desk.
"As predicted. The rat has come." Dazai states, his voice so empty, it's as though it comes from a machine instead of a person.
"Oh?" Mori enquires, lifting his head and opening a file on his desk, his actions look almost too curated. "You're certain?
"Of course." Dazai responds, hollow and still.
"Well then," violet eyes snap to Chuuya then back to Dazai. "We best make sure he goes hungry."
****
Chuuya is used to not knowing whats going on. Especially when it comes to Dazai. But this takes that to all new heights as he follows the bandaged beanpole down the stairs of a quaint little bar below the Ginza, Tokyo. Drinks are placed before them with a wordless nod as they settle at the bar.
His wide eyes and hanging jaw, must make for quite the sight, seeing as Dazai looks at him, stops what he's doing, and bursts into near maniacle laughter. This goes on for a few minutes, leaving the bandaged man to wipe tears from his one visable eye.
"Aw c'mon Chuuya~ isn't this what you've wanted since we met?" Dazai chides playfully, wagling his eyebrow and poking at his partners shoulder.
Sure, he says he's gonna kill him on a daily basis. But if he truly wanted Dazai dead, he would be. "No." Chuuya mumbles, plucking his glass of red wine from the bar, pausing at his lips, the heat of his breath, fogging the surface. "No, it isn't."
"If it helps, ability user 5158, he won't actually be dead." Another voice joins the mix as Sakaguchi Ango strides down the stairs, behind him a man Chuuya recognises as Oda Sakunosuke.
"His name, is Chuuya, and you will do well to use it. Ango." Dazai spits, his words dripping with venom.
"Ah, forgive me Dazai-kun. I spend so many hours writing people as numbers-"
"I don't really care. Chuuya is my partner. Use. His. Name." Mirthless and unyeilding, Dazai lacks his earlier attitude. He watches Ango, like a wolf, staring down a rival. Teeth barred and gaze sharp.
"Of course. My mistake." Ango bows his head lightly, "Chuuya-kun." Chuuya tips his hat in response.
Oda shakes his head, amused. Before both Ango and Dazai burst into laughter. Odasaku pats Chuuyas shoulder before taking a seat on the other side of Dazai. "Sorry about them, children at heart I fear."
Chuuya lets out a huff of agreement. He knows that better than most, just how childish Dazai can be.
Dazai watches as Chuuya listens. Takes in the details of that beautiful face as it shifts and slides through every possible emotion. Eyes of autumn leaves and storms at sea, swirling with questions he doesn't ask. Always so quiet in his curiosity. Unabashedly, Dazai stares. Leaning his elbow on the bar, he rests his cheek on the back of his hand, the other on Chuuyas knee. Every movement, each time the muscle flexes and contracts, he feels it under his fingers. How he longs to be closer, to pull Chuuya in and kiss every inch of his flushed face. To hear his mildly exasperated protests, interupted by chuckles he can't surpress.
The hum of Chuuya's sultry voice as familiar as his own breath in his lungs.
Ango makes a living off reading people, but when it comes to Dazai, he could do it blind. As it were, Dazai may as well have a neon sign above his head saying *I'm hopelessly in love with Nakahara Chuuya.* He's so damn loud with his hopeless pining. Shameless in his admiration. Though he supposes that is to be expected here, its the only place Dazai really just lets himself be. A tentative lowering of his perfected persona.
Oda smiles sadly at his friend, someone who is both his younger brother and his superior. Dazai has always been a child who was never allowed to be one. Behind those dark eyes, practised smiles, and cold words, he's like a lonely boy, crying silently in the corner, desperately hoping no-one will notice, desperately hoping someone will. He watches Dazai as he commits Chuuya to memory. Saving every little detail with that all-seeing eyes of his. Sometimes, love is an acursed thing.
Drinks and words flow freely as the hours pass. All too soon, one after the other, duty calls them away.
Dazai dies that night. Well, kinda.
****
On the last night of Mizu hajimete karuru (Farmers drain feilds), Chuuya cries. Real tears, hot and salty. His nose runs unceremoniously. He knows it's fake. He helped plant the damned body for fucks sake, but as he looks at the photos on the screen attached to the article. Nakahara Chuuya, cries. The words branded into his minds eye. Carved into his eyelids.
Yokohama's notorious Demon Prodigy, Tsushima Shuuji: FOUND DEAD.
Cause of Death: Drug Overdose.
It would be a week. A long, gods awful week. Before a theif would break into Chuuyas apartment. The first week of Kanro (cold dew), Kōgan kitaru (wild geese return), brings in a beanpole of a man, covered from the nose down, in layers of black. Chuuya almost kills him, the liquor sloshing in his gut slowing him down, just enough to think better of it. There's only one person capable of breaking into his apartment. One.
"Jeezus fucking christ Osamu I almost killed you" Chuuya whisper-yells through gritted teeth as he stumbles towards the intruder.
"Well that would make my rather elaborate fake death miserably redundant, o'chibi~." Dazai muses, pulling the intoxicated Chuuya into his arms and pressing a light kiss to his forehead. The thin fabric of his mask, buffering them.
"What are you doing here? Isn't it risky for you to be out?" He's still whisper yelling, just now it's directly into Dazais chest.
"Mhm, thats why I'm dressed like this and why I had to come in the hard way. It's been months since I've broken in here."
"and you've had a key for years. Idiot. Stupid, stinky, fish man." Chuuya grumbles, his words slurring together as sleep sneaks past his lowered defenses.
"Thats me~" Dazai chirps softly. Embracing him for just a moment longer, enjoying his scent and engulfing heat. "I can't stay. Just needed to stop you, from for real dying of alcohol poisoning." Dazai holds Chuuya by the shoulders, stooping down to look him in the eyes. "I wasn't here Chuuya. Say it. Say I wasn't here."
"Yeah yeah,whatever mackerel," His tongue is stubborn and clumbsy and his eyes wont stay open. "you weren't here"
Dazai chuckles and mumbles a "good doggy" before settling Chuuya down on his sofa where he promptly falls alseep. Taking the time to get him some water from the fridge and some pain killers. Then, as quickly as he had arrived, he's gone again.
When Chuuya wakes, his head is spliting and his insides threaten to become outsides. Planting his feet flat on the floor and pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, he rides out the wave of pain and nausea. Once he feels like he isn't about to hurl and his skull isn't about to splinter into a billion pieces. He looks around for his phone. He has to squint against the offensive brightness of his screen to read the time, 1.30am. Theres a glass of water and some pain meds on his coffee table, without much thought, he downs them in one go. Movement catches his eye, as piece of paper falls from the bottom of the glass… its blank so he goes to toss it out, when he notices the markings. Not blank, just hard to see. Holding it up in front of the light from his phonescreen. Chuuya reads the scrawled words.
*Chuuya. Stay safe and don't drink so much, please. From your stupid, stinky, fish man xoxoxo*
Chuuya burns it and then feeds the ashes to his plants. A vast array of succulents, lithops, bromeliads and cacti. Though he keeps the bromeliads in his bathroom. It had been Gin who got him into keeping them. It had started with one that they had given him as a gift. Now, his place is full of them.
****
Two years go by without a single word or sign from Dazai. No hidden messages or clever little things to say 'still here'. Just a screaming silence. He finds himself standing at the grave of Tsushima Shuuji, even though the body in it was actually some unfortunate sod called Shunpei Kuroki. He'd had an uncanny likeness to Dazai and was the same age. Chuuya feels guilty for how terrible he doesn't feel. This dude was an addict, his life was a mess and he just so happened to look the part. Now hes six feet deep in a mafia cemetery with a legacy he probably didn't even know about.
Chuuya buries himself in his work and focuses on training Akutagawa. He keeps a wary eye on Mori too. He'd become more erratic and impatient with Dazai gone and the other executives had begun to get restless.
Oda does his best to take care of Chuuya (and Akutagawa) in Dazai's absence. Checking in on him regularly and drinking with him at Lupin whenever they had the time. The former assassin, all too familiar with how deafening silence can be.
****
The quiet is hard to disturb when the only sound is the whisper of gauze against his shirtsleeve as he pushes his bandaged arm through it. Like a pythons embrace, tight and compressive, it brings minute relief to his ever burning skin. The muscular plane of his abdomen ripples as he pulls the shirt down into place. Dazai layers a slim fitting black turtleneck over it before threading his arms into his coat.
Beneath his black combat boots, leaves crunch, and his breath forms little vapour clouds as it hits the cold air. Shimo hajimete furu (first frost) has come. He scrunches his nose in distaste at the sheer brightness of the sun, it's presence doing little to lift the chill from around his bare face.
Theres a car waiting for him. Plain and unassuming. Not like the sleek black workhorses of the mafia. In the drivers seat, sits Ango. He slides his finger up the bridge of his nose, adjusting his glasses, catching the light for a moment, casting the former spy, now special agent, in a brief air of mystery. His brown suit compliments his slender frame. Dazai sighs wistfully as he gets in. It's going to be a long drive.
****
Deja vu has a way of making Chuuya look stupid. Or maybe its the fact his jaw is once again on the floor and his eyes feel like they might just burst from his skull with how wide they are. Oda seems unfazed, simply nodding at the pair before returning his attention to his drink. Striding down the stairs behind one Sakuguchi Ango, in none other then a very alive and seemingly well, Dazai Osamu.
His hair is longer now, falling in messy waves just over his shoulders. He has the top half in an equally messy bun, secured with an ornate hairpin. A few stubborn strands fall over his forehead and brush his cheeks. His face lacks the bandages Chuuya had become used to in the years they worked together, though he had seen Dazai's bare face many times back then, theres still something novel about it. Wearing a black double breasted trench that flows around him, he looks like some kind of model. Effortlessly beautiful, he looks good. Chuuya's mouth goes dry and he decides now is probably a good time to pick his jaw up off the floor and take a sip of his wine.
Tucking a wayward strand of hair behind his ear, Dazai sits himself down next to Chuuya while Ango sits on the other side of Oda. The mafia executive is decidedly not drunk enough for this. The soft lighting of the bar casting soft shadows on Dazai's fair skin. His lashes catch the beams between their strands like glitter. Dazai takes a sip from his glass and Chuuya watches unapologetically, staring at his bare throat as it bobs.
"Do I really look so different, Chuuya?" Dazai whispers, looking down at Chuuya from over his cheek, not turning his head. A teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I- well… yeah actually. Kinda." He does his best not to choke on his words, fidgeting with his wine glass, "You look good." He murmurs, pouring more of the slightly spicy red liquid into his all too clumsy mouth.
A tiny trickle, flows eagerly down his chin and the mafioso internally cusses himself out. Before he can attempt to hide it or clean, or something. Dazai uses a napkin to gently dab it away and pinching Chuuyas chin between the index finger and thumb of his free hand, turns his face each way. Checking for any other misplaced liquor.
"There, " Dazai purrs, his dark chocolatey eyes not leaving Chuuyas mouth- "all better."
He's too damn enthralled to think better of it. Pink tongue swiping out over his bottom lip. Eyes, mismatched, locked on to the endless possibilities swirling in Dazai's. The soft pad of Dazai's thumb trails after Chuuya's tongue, leaving an unpleasant chill in its wake.
Strands of syrup and espresso fall from behind his ear as Dazai sips calmly at his drink. No signs of the absolute hurricaine he had awoken in Chuuya. Bandaged bastard. Setting his hat on the bar between them, the mafioso runs a hand roughly through his hair. Forcing strands of fire and sunset to shuffle around his frustrated fingers. He greedily guzzles down the last of his wine and beckons the bar tender for a refil, who obliges wordlessly, a serene smile on his weathered face.
The night flows like a river, high in the moutains. Untainted by the outside world. Unsoiled by the touch of man or beast. Pristine, peaceful, perfect. Dazai insists on the four of them taking photos together. Using the excuse of having been 'dead' for the past two years to sway them into agreement. It works on Oda and Ango, but stubborn as always, Chuuya refuses. He gets his first real taste of the buraiha trio then. The scheming hooligans attempt to physically wrangle him in front of the lense. Naturally, that results in a bunch of failed attempts and no doubt a camera roll filled with nothing more than blurs of colour.
Then Dazai whispers in Chuuyas ear, breath hot and teasing as it flows over his skin. Chuuya does his best to surpress the shiver it sends down his spine as Dazai snakes his arm around his waist, giving Chuuya's hip a firm squeeze, "Just one photo, o'chibi. Please."
Feigning nonchalance, Chuuya yeilds with a huff, leaning into Dazai slightly. Satisfied, Dazai smiles. Bright and warm and real. It hits Chuuya like a truck. His heart slamming into his ribcage with such force, he's surprised it doesn't burst out and throw itself at the taller man. Then it stops completely, or at least it feels like it, as Dazai's soft lips press gently into his cheek.
"Thank you, Chuuya."
****
Mafia executive Nakahara Chuuya wakes with a most unbecomming sound as he rushes to the bathroom to violently evict his stomach contents into the toilet. He's barely lucid and it takes him far too long to notice his hair being pulled back into a hair tie, or the soothing circles being rubbed into his back. Who the fuck is in his house?!- Everything comes rushing back to him as the next wave hits, sending his face back into the porcelain hellscape. He remembers being at Lupin bar… seeing Dazai. The stupid photo the bandaged bastard insisted on taking. Chuuya remembers everything but falling out of the taxi and into long arms. The soft voice musing in his ear as he was tucked into bed like some child.
When his insides stop trying to escape and his head stops spinning, Chuuya sinks to the floor, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. He feels a light bump against his shoulder and does his best to ignore the fact Dazai had just watched him puke his guts out. Another bump, something cold and hard. He dares to peek out from the safety of his arm and finds a bottle of water being held out to him. Mumbling a shameful "thanks" Chuuya takes it, sipping slowly, letting the icy liquid flow down, soothing the burning flesh of his throat and taking the acrid taste with it.
"All these years of drinking and Chuuya still can't hold his liquor~" Dazai chirps, handing Chuuya a washcloth.
Chuuya huffs as he takes it, cleaning his face with a heavy scowl. It all feels so painfully right. Like it hasn't been two years since he last saw him, like he didn't leave the mafia, like he wasn't gone. But he had been. It is wrong. How easy it is. As Dazai pads out into the living area and leaves Chuuya to get cleaned up, the mafioso is too weak to stop himself from picturing the life they could of had. If things were different, maybe if Chuuya had been raised like a real human, or if Dazai hadn't been 'saved' by the boss. He brushes his teeth as his thoughts wander and he lets himself entertain all the silly and hopeless, "what ifs".
Dazai prepares rice, umeboshi (pickled plums) and canned shijimi miso soup. When Chuuya emerges from the bathroom, he startles slightly and Dazai has to stifle his amusement.
"Since when did you become such a housewife?" Chuuya jibes, eyebrow raised. Hiding behind the farce.
"I've made food for you plenty of times, dearest husband.~" Dazai retorts, smirking proudly.
Chuuya curls his lip, scruching his nose as he sits across from Dazai and casts his gaze to the food, clicking his tongue. "I'm not your husband"
"You could be…" its a whisper. Barely audible even in the quiet of Chuuya's apartment. Dazai doesn't take his eyes off the red haired mafioso. Watches him still, chopsticks hovering in the air just above the umeboshi.
"Is that your version of a proposal, shitty Dazai?" Chuuya pries, focusing on plucking the brined fruit from its bowl and popping it in his mouth.
"I would prefer to do things differently, but I suppose this will have to do." Dazai mumbles, fishing around in his pocket. He pulls out a small black box and sets it on the chabudai between them. He doesn't say anything else.
Chuuya nearly chokes on his soup. There, right there in front of him, on his own table. Is a black leather ringbox. One he had seen a little over a year and a half ago, at a jewellery store he now has influence over. A box that had caught his eye for longer than he'd liked to admit. The embossed ryuu and the subtle hints of red throughout the black of its surface. Chuuya looks up at Dazai with unconcealed bewilderment and is met with a look so soft it threatens to crush him in its featherlight grip.
Chuuya slides the top off of the perfectly square cuberevealing its contents. A dark metal ring with a rectangle indicolite in the centre. The band looks like braided rope that wraps around either side of the horizontal stone and crosses itself at the back. Giving the illusion of a never ending braid encircling the wearer.
"Took me a few months to get the shape right, don't think my hands have ever worked so hard~" The bandaged man muses as he watches Chuuya.
"Wait- you made this.?" Chuuya gawks, still eyeing the ring from within its home in the little black box.
"Well yeah, I had the time and without my little dogs incesent yapping to distract me-"
"You-!" His temper fizzles out, from one breath to the next. "You really are a piece of work Osamu."
"You love me~"
"You're damn lucky I do asshole."
Dazai's voice is thick and heavy as he responds, "Oh I know."
Chuuya eyes the ring again before taking it from the box, pinching it between his fingers. It feels nice, cool to the touch and the colour in the stone calms something in him. Wordlessly, Dazai reaches over, taking Chuuyas left hand in his own, sporting a near identical band, a deep red garnet set in the centre. Stunned stupid, Chuuya lets Dazai slide the ring down into place and watches the dark waves of his hair fall around his pretty face as he leans over the chabudai and kissess Chuuyas knuckles.
He can't hear a damn thing through the absolute thunder of his heart, hammering away in his chest, his blood rushing through his veins with such force he feels he might come apart. He doesn't hear himself speak, just feels the wall of embarrassment crash down on his head afterwards. "I'd much rather you put those lips on mine and kiss me properly you teasing bastard." He knows his face is all kinds of red, his ears are on fire and the smug jerk is sitting there smirking! Chuuya groans, pulling his hand away from Dazai so he can run it down his face.
"Why don't you put those lips to use and eat. Then I'll kiss you as much as you like, Chuuya." He purrs, as he tilts his head, hooded eyes regarding Chuuya hungrily.
"Tsk, fine." Chuuya barks out. Because he really should finish this food and he really does want the man on the other side of his table to kiss him.
A subtle shift in the air is the only warning Chuuya gets, as he sets his chopsticks down in his empty bowl and pushes it aside, before Dazai impolitely pushes the entire table out of his way and slinks forward, crawling to Chuuya. Gods is it hot, the way he stalks towards him, eyes dark but sparkling. Chuuyas mouth goes dry and he swears half his blood goes straight to his dick. Falling back onto his elbows as Dazai leans up into him, pressing that long body up against his. Hot lips press against his neck, just below his choker and Chuuya moans. He tries, fruitlessly to stifle it, but as his head lulls to the side and his chin tilts upwards, he knows he's done for.
Grazing his teeth over the skin on either side of the thin strip of leather, Dazai revells in the hitching of Chuuya's breath. Of his pulse stuttering just below his skin. "I really do like this on you." He murmurs, running his tongue over the smooth surface and up to the smaller mans jaw. He makes a point of bracing himself over one of Chuuyas thighs, pressing his knee up into his crotch. With his right hand supporting him from next to Chuuyas elbow, Dazai pinches the mans chin between his thumb and forfinger.
Trapped, not by force, but by the sheer presence Dazai has, Chuuya waits. Breath already coming in ragged pants. He holds the brunettes gaze and for the first time in his life, feels truly and completely shameless. The way Dazai looks at him, how his eyes hold him, like he's some priceless treasure. It's driving him insane but he wont let himself ruin this. As a true show of patience, Chuuya waits. Blood pumping, mind reeling and cock hard. He stays put.
Dazai smirks, tilting his head slightly. "Such a good pet, waiting for me~" Dazai muses, leaning down and catching Chuuyas lips in his, just as the red-haired mans head tips back. An intentional swipe of his tongue across the plump lower lip of Nakahara Chuuya has Osamu devouring the mans moan as he is granted access into that sinful mouth. Somehow, he still manages to taste of wine.
Eventually, their makeout session on the floor finds its way to the bedroom, their clothes, less fortunate, discarded along the way and left strewn throughout the apartment. Skin, slick with sweat and random drops of lube, slaps together as Dazai rides Chuuya's cock. Hands splayed out on his muscled chest, fingertips pressing into the plump flesh, mouth hanging open and eyes half closed. Dazai fucks himself senseless. Chuuya braces Dazais hips with a bruising grip, matching every bounce. He doesn't dare close his eyes, drinking in the sight through his lashes. Dazai above him, skin flushed, hair sticking to his sweaty skin.
"Gods you're beautiful 'samu." Chuuya pants out, his words broken by his heavy breathing, falling into the space between each thrust.
Breathless, Dazai's words come out messy and imprecise. "Abysmally mundane, next to you Chuuya."
"Good thing you're on top of me the- haah fuck" Chuuya's cut off as Dazai shifts. Planting his feet flat, one after the other and picking up the pace.
It's pants and moans and every form of lewd sound their bodies can make as they chase the high. Somewhere in Chuuya's hazey mind he considers its probably gross or weird how much he wants to see it, to watch Dazai cum, to feel the hot sticky liquid splatter onto his freckled skin. But he really does want to see it, so gritting his teeth against his own rising pleasure, Chuuya focuses on Dazais trembling body as his moans turn to whimpers. Touselled hair of chocolate and coffee sticks to skin, flushed and sweaty as Dazai's head fall forward, hands clawing at the broad chest he braces himself on.
Chuuya urges him on with praise moaned out from behind his teeth. "I've go you Osamu, Come for me"
Dazai cries out, shaking almost violently, Chuuya strokes Dazais throbbing cock as thick white streams of cum spurt out and onto his torso. It's the final straw for Chuuya and he comes undone, spilling into the tight heat of his partner with a rumbling moan that reverberates through from deep in his chest. Dazai slumps forwards and Chuuya is quick to catch him before he lands in the mess currently decorating Chuuyas skin. Gently, he rolls them over onto a patch of bed that managed to survive their… activities, and eases himself out of Dazai's decadent embrace.
"You, Dazai Osamu, are a masterpiece." Chuuya murmurs into damp hair in all shades of chocolate and coffee.
"and you, Nakahara Chuuya, are the gallery." Dazai responds lazily, blissfully adrift in the haze.
****
After a much needed shower and once Chuuya had stripped his bed of the dirtied sheets, replacing them with soft clean ones, Chuuya convinces Dazai to take a nap. Curling up together, clean and warm and thoroughly fucked out. Sleep comes for Chuuya as he listens to the soft, even breaths of Dazai. He can but dream, while he clings fruitlessly to his lucidity, of a life where they grow old together, maybe get a dog (or a cat…) a life where Dazai stays…
Chuuya wakes up alone.
It doesn't surprise him. Not really, but the way his throat burns and his ribs close in around his lungs is unmistakeable. There's a searing pain in his eyes and breathing seems out of reach. Before any tears can stray onto his face and betray him, Chuuya hears the door of his apartment open and he's in the living room before he can think. With just an oversized t-shirt on, he's rather vulnerable. That becomes a moot point when he remembers he's a gravity manipulator. Though that too, becomes redundant when he realises its none other than Dazai who stands in front of the door.
"Ah, you're up. I had hoped to make it back before you woke." Dazai's voice is light, breezy
"Where the fuck were you?" He doesn't mean for it to come out so angrily or for his voice to crack or for the hot, salty tears to stream down his face in a shameful display of hopeless attachment.
Dazai's face falls and he toes of his shoes with graceful haste "Oh Chuuya, You're such a needy little dog you know~" His words are teasing but his tone is thick with remorse as he sets down the bag he's holding and opens his arms.
Chuuya's body moves of its own volition, closing the distance in a blink. His fist sinks into the meat of Dazai's belly as the words claw out from his throat, "I thought…. I thought you left- again."
"uuack, Shit Chuuya, I'm sorry!" Dazai's words tumble from his mouth as his folds around the punch, clutching at his abdomen. "I did try to make it back before you woke, just so you know"
Something clicks into place in Chuuyas sharpening mind. The fogginess of sleep, clearing with each heartbeat. "Is it even safe for you to be seen? You're supposed to be dead." He still pissed, one could almost say, livid. But that doesn't stop him worrying, it never does.
"Shuuji's dead." Dazai states nonchalantly, straighting back up and collecting his things from the floor, setting them on the kitchen island instead. "Osamu doesn't exist." The brunette man pulls the still angry red head into his arms as he continues- "Right now, I'm Ōba Yōzō, a writer and artist. The illegitimate third son of a wealthy businessman. Just another eccentric nobody for society to forget." Dazai buries his nose into locks of sunset and fire, inhaling the profiles of Chuuyas slightly spicy scent. "Hiding isn't always about not being seen Chuuya, it's about being forgettable."
"Not sure how anyone could forget seeing you." Chuuya mutters.
"Oh? Do I look that bad?" Dazai questions, as he slips out of his coat, throwing Chuuya a puzzled look as he hangs it on the back of the door.
"No you bandaged idiot, you look good." Chuuya all but snaps, how could this fucker walk around like this and think he looks anything less than incredible?!
"You really think so?" Dazai pries, his voice adopting an air of uncertainty, eyes searching Chuuyas face for some kind of clue to his potential dishonesty.
"Plus, it's you, people don't just forget you 'samu" Chuuya adds, his voice settling.
"hmm" Dazai hums, booping Chuuya on the nose, "I've always known you were clever~"
"Hah?! You're the one always calling me stupid!" Chuuya spits, there's a hint of venom in his words, an old hurt left to fester in the dark.
"You're naive, reckless and impulsive Chuuya, but you are not stupid and you never have been."
"Being around you sure makes me feel stupid." He retorts under his breath. Pulling away and stalking into the living area. Keenly aware of Dazai following behind him.
"I was raised to be the perfect brain, and was given everything to make it possible." Dazai starts, reaching out for Chuuya as the red haired man turns to face him again. "I didn't have to fight in the streets just to eat or have somewhere safe to sleep. I lived in abundance and safety, while you, Chuuya, didnt know what bread was until you were seven. Compared to me Chuuya, kings looked like clowns, yet the only fool, was me."
Taken aback, Chuuya goes to speak but his thoughts are ill-mannered and he makes do with a statement that, though correct, falls painfully flat. "You've changed."
"Mmm, Dazai hums, and you stayed."
****
Chuuya retreats to his bedroom Dazai's words playing in his head, ringing like an eco chamber. "You stayed" The fuck does that even mean? He stands there, staring at nothing in particular, his head hurts. Stupid bandaged bastard and his crypic bullshit…
How does that saying go? No rest for the wicked? Chuuya must be the most wicked of them all then, as his 'work' phone buzzes. The mafioso's gut falls to the floor between his feet, there on the screen, three letters he could have done without seeing today. 'Boss'
"Moshi moshi"
"Ah, Chuuya-kun, I hope I didn't wake you." Mori cooes salaciously through the phone and Chuuya surpressess a shiver as he puts the boss on speaker. He can feel Dazai standing by the door, watching, listening. "I trust you will be able to make it to my office in an hour."
"Of course."
"Wonderful, oh, and Chuuya-kun?"
"Yeah? What now?"
"Do bring my boy with you."
Chuuya catches Dazais eyes with his own and it's like he physically watches the walls go up. The soft sparkle, replaced with an eerie blankness. All the warmth seeping out, leaving only the cold abyss in its place. It's an unnerving sight and Chuuya feels his heart break when Dazai gives him a meek nod before that too, is gone. Until a husk stands in his place.
"Sure."
"Wonderful, I look forw-" Chuuya hangs up.
He searches Dazai's face for something, anything. Finds nothing but the cold neautrality Chuuya had once believed was real. The mask of the demon prodigy.
Dazai shrugs and somehow he makes it look easy. Like Chuuya can't see him screaming behind those dark eyes.
Foregoing his usual suit, the mafioso finds a plain black longsleeve pullover and french-tucks it into black cargo pants. He keeps his jacket and hat, trading in his leather shoes for a pair of combat boots he barely gets a chance to ware. Absent-mindedly, Dazai reaches out to Chuuya, letting his hand fall like a deadweight just before he makes contact.
"Chuuya." Dazai whispers, those dark eyes seem to be staring straight through him, like he's seeing a whole different world. Somewhere Chuuya will probably never know. He hates it. Seeing him like this. He hates it.
****
It's a sickly thing, twisted and monstrous, the way his smile only widens as he watches the pair walk through his office doors in their matching attire. He did a good job with them, cultivating them into corrupted perfection. His most prized creation, Double Black.
"Chuuya-kun, thank you for coming with such short notice." Mori muses. "Dazai-kun, welcome home."
"Don't delude yourself sensei. This is no home of mine." Dazai's voice is flat and his words do little to deter the mafia head.
"We'll see about that, my dear." The mafia boss chides, making no effort to hide his lecherous inflections
"The rat-" Dazai starts, before the violet eyed man cuts him off.
"Yes, yes. Always so impatient when it comes to your beloved Dostoevsky."
"Beloved is not the word I'd use."
"Is it not? You seemed so utterly infatuated."
"For all that you are wise, your mind falls short yet again, Mori-sensei. He is neither my beloved nor am I infatuated. Fascinated? Yes. Intrigued? Very much so. But do not accuse me of possessing something as mundane as desire for him."
"Really? You could of had me fooled."
"I fear thats not as difficult as you think it is."
Chuuya can barely fucking contain himself. Sure he's seen them banter before, but this is decidedly not that. Dazai's tongue is much sharper, his words cutting through the curated facade of the infallible boss.
"I spent two years doing everything you asked of me. I played my part, now its your turn." Dazai
"Of course. I would not attempt to dishonour our agreement, Osamu-kun." Mori shifts his weight, leaning forward and resting his chin on the back of his interlaced fingers. "I do hope you will consider coming back to us."
Dazai hums as though thinking. Toying with the idea. He leans forawrds over the boss's desk and, with the voice Mori gave him, declines. "I assure you. I won't."
****
There's an accident at Freedom (Jiyūken) resturant that night. An undetected gas leak. It causes an explosion that kills five children and two adults. Sakunosuke Oda, among them.
****
"Dazai-kun, you can't possibly go after the boss of the port mafia with nothing more than a hunch! I trust that you're right, but then this is Mori we're talking about."
"Tell me Ango, do you intend to do nothing about your husbands murder?
"Dazai-kun, please." Ango pleads, a weak and resigned sound.
"So thats how it is then? You would do nothing because it's him." Disgust weighs heavy on Dazais words, his voice, saturated in the putrid tar of his rage.
"The balance of the tripartide agreement sits on his shoulders Dazai-kun! This is bigger than you or me or Oda, this is about all of Yokohama!"
"A kings reign always ends. Dazai shrugs dismissively. "The seat of the don will not have a chance to grow cold."
"Dazai"
"I do not seek your permission Ango" setting his glass down, Dazai strides towards the stairs of Lupin bar. Speaking over his shoulder, he casts a final glance at his friend "in turn, do not seek my forgiveness for you will not find it."
Ango watches Dazai slip his long arms into the sleeves of a black coat he had silently wished his friend had burned. It has been years since he's seen the wretched thing and it makes Ango's gut twist to see how well Dazai has grown into it. As Dazai strides up the stairs and out of sight, Sakaguchi Ango's heart aches and his lungs burn. There is a beauty only Dazai has in the ugliness of their world. Oh how proud they would be now, what an acursed legacy.
****
Upon arriving back in Yokohama, Dazai seeks out his favourite human. A small, angry, beautiful man with hair thats captured the brightest rays of a sunset, eyes that tell of stormy seas and autumn leaves and a brilliantly crass mouth. A mouth he all but plunges himself into the moment he's within range. Taken aback, Chuuya's response is a little rushed and messy, but he soon rights himself, devouring Dazai's desperation.
Their trip to the den of the devil is far less enjoyable, Chuuya is all but vibrating with anticipation, but absolutely none of it is pleasant. His jaw aches and his bones feel like they're pressing out of his skin, tendons taut and his heartbeat is impossible to keep track of. Next to him, Dazai is so still, Chuuya has to satre at him just to be sure he's breathing. There's a subtle rustle of fabric as Dazai wordless reaches out at grabs Chuuya's hand, the coolness of his skin, soothing the inferno barely contained in his.
Mori wlecomes the pair with misplaced confidence, assured in his efforts to force Dazai back into the mafia. The boss eyes the black jacket Dazai wears and Chuuya can feel the claws of his rage carving him from within, desperate to tear the flesh from Mori's bones. To feel them crack and crunch beneath the force of his hands.
"And so, the prodigal son returns." Mori murmurs as he dismisses his gaurds. The doors fall shut behind them with a soft 'click'. A lecherous grin spreads across his pale face as he opens his arms. He paints a scene, far from an inviting, as he beckons Dazai to him. "Welcome home, Osamu darling"
Dazai strides over with a subtle sensuality that almost makes Chuuya doubt, almost, for just the briefest of moments. Dazai is so at ease with his body in front of this man, so in tune with his every movement. He flows like water, smooth and true, as river returning to sea. Dazai all but melds into the man with raven hair and violet eyes as he lets Mori wrap his rotten arms around him. Sinking into the touch. With devastating tenderness, Dazai caressess Mori's cheek.
There's something painfully beautiful about them. In the lowering light of the office, as the sun bids goodnight to their city of violence and bloodshed, there's a likeness in their features that is more than a little unnerving. Something twists in Chuuya's gut, a strange sense of regret, like he's taking something from Dazai that he doesnt want to lose. It's like watching a trainwreck in slow motion, he's powerless to the tragedy unfolding before him as he watches Dazai capture Mori's lips in a gentle kiss.
Droplets of hot, sticky crimson, splatter onto Dazai's fair skin. He doesn't so much as flinch, staring blankly into brilliant purple eyes as they fade to a lifeless grey. The weight in his arms grows heavy and he sinks to his knees, following the body as it decends to the floor. It's hard to see, his vision blurred from the unbidden tears he can feel falling, hot and free. He buries his face deep into the layers of fabric that adorn Mori's chest and cries. Great racking sobs that cause thunderous quakes in his unabashedly trembling form. He's like a child, inconsolable as his muffled wails reverberate through the office. His hands hurt, his white-knuckled grip on the mans jacket, unwavering. Curled over the corpse of the former mafia boss, in a pathetic heap of limbs, Dazai Osamu cries.
Chuuya doesn't know what to do. This isn't what he had expected, not even close, not that he really knows what he was expecting. Sure as hell wasn't for Dazai to kiss the man, most definitely wasn't to see him crumble into a sobbing mess. He had made sure not to use a gun, instead using his ability to control the bullet he had just embedded into the boss's brain. It had been nearly silent, instant. Significantly better than what that monster deserved and yet somehow he still feels guity. Watching Dazai crumple over the boss like this, as much as it hurts to admit, this is the most human Chuuya has ever seen him.
He lets Mori's body fall gracelessly to the floor, still clutching the red scarf as he stands. Dazai holds the soft fabric to his nose, inhaling deeply, letting the scents trapped within, fill his burning lungs, with a shuddering exhale he presses the crimson fibres to his cheek, leaning into the softness. Dazai appears otherworldly as he stares with lightless eyes at the dead man on the floor, then he blinks, lingering in the moment for only a moment more. When he turns to face Chuuya, theres a soft, sad smile on his tearstained face.
"The mafia is yours now." he whispers, draping the scarf around Chuuya's neck, his thumbs brushing the skin just above Chuuya's sweater.
"Have you finally gone mad?!" Chuuya eexclaims as he steps back, putting some space between himself and his former partner.— "I can't lead the fucking mafia Dazai!"
With terrifying fluidity, Dazai moves to stand behind Chuuya, setting his hands proudly on his shoulders and leaning down to whisper in his ear, hot breath dancing over Chuuyas all-too-sensitive skin. "Yes you can Chuuya. You were born to lead, now lead."
As though on que, the office fills with the faces of the mafia elite. The upper echelons of Yokohama's most dangerous criminal organization. The bodies of the two gaurds disregarded in the doorway.
****
A week later, on the first day of Momiji tsuta kibamu, (Maple leaves and ivy turn yellow) Dazai dissapears. Chuuya searches, in quiet ways. He isn't sure if he's trying to find him, or just hoping not to find his body. It's after one of his, less frequent, rendevous with Yosano-sensei, Chuuya finds out Dazai has decided to play detective with the armed detective agency. His blood boils and it takes every once of his self control not to crash out right then and there.
"Why wouldn't he tell me?"
"It's Dazai, only he knows. But if I had to guess, it's all part of some plan. The long game he'd call it." There's a gentleness to her as she talks to him, she reminds him of ane-san.
The next day, Chuuya would see for himself. Dazai Osamu, armed detective. His hair is short again, the ends barely brushing his chin. The cream coloured slacks and tan duster compliment him more than Chuuya wants to admit. The light suits him.
From the distance he keeps, the boss of the port mafia observes silently. Even from here on the rooftop, he swears he can hear what the bandaged menace is saying and he longs to be able to knock that infuriating smirk from his all too pretty face. A sentiment that seems to be shared by the blonde giraffe he's wtih as the man sends Dazai to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs. There's glint in the brunettes eye, a kind of spark that is only ever there when the bastard gets his way. With a huff, Chuuya resigns himself to admit that maybe the spectacled detective will be good for him. He indulges for a moment too long, breath catching in his throat as eyes of mahogany and coffee hold his, from halfway across the damned city, Dazai Osamu smirks.
****
In the space of year, Nakahara Chuuya had been put through his paces. Navigating the conflict with the American Guild, reinforcing his authority over some of the more ambtious executives, namely Kaji and Ace, and trying to keep Dazai out of his business. He's tired and frustrated but theres something satisfying about being at the top. As infuriating as it is, Chuuya has to give the bastard credit where its due. He really does like being at the top.
****
"With all due respect Ranpo-san, I don't think even you and I are going to be able to unravel that demons plan so easily" Dazai murmurs, fidgeting with the ring on his left hand.
"Am I not the worlds greatest detective?!" Ranpo exclaimes with an air of childish arrogance as he leaps from his chair, fists on his hips.
"You are. But you are also, just a man, and he, is something else entirely." Dazai's voice is tight and lacks any of his usual theatrics. "I mean no disrespect Ranpo-san, I assure you."
Ranpo eyes Dazai, the air shifting. "Why now then? Why wait so long? If he is so scary as to have the demon prodigy shaking in his shiny leather shoes, why would he wait?"
"The demon what-now?!" Kunikida barks out as he zeroes in on his partner, eyes wide.
"Seriously Kunikida-kun? I thought you would have figured it out by now. I guess I overestimated you." Dazai chides, sighing whistfully. Lifting a hand to boop Kunikidas nose.
There's no anger in the blonde man as he holds Dazai up, the brunett all but dangling from his coat. "Dazai." Kunikida pulls the (slightly) smaller man into his arms, wrapping him in a near vice-like hug, tucking his chin over Dazais shoulder. "I'm so sorry."
Dazai yelps as he's engulfed in the unyeilding embrace of his partner, this is decidedly not how he expected this interaction to unfold. Somewhere in him, something jagged and broken, is pushed togther. Not fixed, not whole, but together. It takes more effort than he will ever admit to himself, to swallow the lump forming in his throat.
The thing is, Kunikida knew a lot more about the port mafia than most people thought and about Dazai's past. He knew the moment he saw him. Those dark eyes filled with fabricated light, belonged to the real Tsushima Shuuji. Back when Gen'emon had been more… stable, Kunikida had visited him at Fukui memorial hospital. That man had had the same eyes.
"Kunikida-kun… please let go" —Dazai groans, wriggling slightly— "you're gonna crush me in your crazy vice arms."
"Oh- right… sorry." Kunikida lets Dazai go, stepping back.
"You feeling okay Kunikida-kun?" The former mafioso questions, raising a brow in concern. "Most people would react very differently to that kind of news."
"I'm not most people Dazai."
"No. I suppose you're not."
****
Chi hajimete kōru ( land starts to freeze). Ranpo figures it out all too late as he watches Sakaguchi Ango's lifeless body fall at his feet. His last word rining louder than the gunshot that had taken his life. "Run."
On the other side of the phone, Fukuzawa's distressed voice forces Ranpo out of his shock, just enough for him to speak. "I…I got it wrong. We lost." Ranpo whispers "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry da-." His words die on his lips as the scalding heat of his lifeblood trickles from them. The intrusion of cold hard metal as a bullet buries itself, unwelcome, in his breaking heart. He watches the jester retreat into his cloak as the earth lurches up to greet him. A single tear slips from once piercing green eye as they close for the last time. With his face in the dirt, his glasses shattered just out of reach, he dies angry. Edogawa Ranpo dies, angry and alone.
Fukuzawa's grip closes impossibly tight, his phone crumpling in his fist. There is no reason or sensibility left within the armed detective agency's president as he reaches for his katana. He knows Yokohama will fall today, but he refuses to let her do so without a fight.
****
His lips curl into a saccharine smile as he bares witness to the unfolding of his plan. Oh how beautiful they are in their ugliness, this plain of sinners on the verge of a new era. A clean new world, forged in the crimson ichor of defection.
Not even he could have foreseen this series of unfortunate events however, as Sigma's lifeless body falls at his feet, Fyodor sighs, a sound full of disdain. Shaking his head, he steps over them with little regard to who they had once been, just another pawn that was no longer necessary.
Horror, is a sensation Nikolai Gogol is most intimately familiar, he would even go so far as to say, he's rather good at causing it, but… as he lands in hall of their home in Russia, he doesn't feel good at all. No, no there is nothing good about the sight that greets him.It comes out as pained cry, a devastating sound that echoes through the howling silence of their villa.
"Why?"
"Ah Kolya, you're back just in time, the main event is about to begin~" Fyodor purrs, striding towards Nikolai.
It isn't fear that prompts the white-haired man to step back as he speaks, it is something far more dangerous, "What have you done, Dos-kun?"
"Hmmm? Oh, you mean this?" The white-clad man questions, gesturing at the corpse laying behind him. "It was necessary I'm afraid, they had made subsuming Mr Stoker far more difficult than it needed to be. I could not risk them getting in the way again this close to our success. You understand I'm sure." he waves a hand dismissively before turning his purple eyes back to Nikolai.
"Yes, of course. I understand." Gogol chirps, plastering a mechanical grin onto his aching face. Behind him, Dazai Osamu groans as his pulls himself up off the floor.
Fyodor's eyes light up brighter than fireworks in the night sky when he see's Dazai. His posture softening slightly and his voice turning molten.
"Shuuji-kun, welcome home." he drwals, his Russian accent thick and strong.
"You know, I'm getting real sick other people deciding where my home should be. You know damn well this is no home of mine Fedya." Dazai bites, all signs of his practised poise, nowhere to be seen.
Fyodor responds calmly, but his voice carries a subtle note of desperation. "It could be, if you would stop being so stubborn."
"Is it stubborness? Or are have you just deluded yourself into thinking you are entitled to me?
"There's no need to be like that Shuuji-"
"Don't." Dazai cuts off the other man with shards of ice in his tone. "You don't get to call me that. Not anymore."
"Ohh?" Fyodor muses, stepping forward, brows raised, "Don't I?" he whispers, leaning in close enough for his breath to dance, hot and teasing over Dazai's skin.
Nikolai does his best to tune out the two men who seem to be dancing to a tune only they can hear. Devoting his attention to the body of his beloved, of Sigma, that lay discarded, forgotten, by the man they had once believed to be their saviour. Leaning down, he lets his lips brush the strands of lilac and silver, whispering a promise that belongs only to them,"davay vstretimsya v sleduyushchey zhizni" (let us meet in our next life). When he pulls himself from the silence of Sigma's corpse, his gaze is held by lightless eyes, darker than a starless night, they peel away the layers of madness Nikolai shelters himself in, down to his raw and ugly core. It hits him then, that both Dazai and Fyodor are far beyond his reach, demons living in the shells of men. On one side, Dazai appears almost non-corporeal. A spectre of shadow beside Fyodor. On the other… Fyodor glows in his twisted radiance.
Fyodor Dostoevsky is a proud man, one of whom is determined to watch the birth of his new world in all her bloodied glory. Nikolai plays his part, taking the three of them to Yokohama. They land on a rooftop that, for the time being, has managed to survive the presently occuring desolution.
The air crackles and the earth rumbles in a way that's all too familiar to Dazai and his tar filled heart sinks through him and into the waiting hands of the devil. "What, have you done Fedya?" It's not a question. It's a declaration. Each word encased in ice that freezes the space between them. Dazai knows. He knows.
"Oh grantors of dark disgrace" Chuuya lets his thoughts wander to his beloved Osamu. The last thing his lucid mind sees, is hair of espresso and syrup falling loosely past equally dark eyes and soft, fair skin that yearns for the kiss of the sun. "Do not wake me again."
Dazai watches, entranced, as Arahabaki screams from Chuuya's mouth and the earth shudders beneath him. There is nothing more beautiful in this world than Chuuya, as this is the last time he will have the bittersweet honour of witnessing him, Dazai stares until Chuuya is out of sight. Turning his beloved city into nothing more than world of meat and rubble.
"All I wanted, was a pure world- and you, Shuuji." Fyodor starts before he is cut of by Dazai's fingers closing around his throat.
Theres something monstrous and feral about Dazai then, as he traps the other man in his unyeilding grip. A beast, enraged at being forced from its slumber. For the first time in his despicably long life, Fyodor Dostoevsky, feels absoluetly and unquestionably, afraid.
"My biggest mistake" Dazai mutters, leaning his face painfully close to the man drawing ever paler in his grasp— "has always been you, Fedya." He softens his grip slightly, just enough for Fyodor to drag staggered breaths into his burning lungs. "and yours" Dazai's voice takes on a sensual tone "was making an enemy of me."
Fyodor croaks out past the merciless fingers compressing his windpipe. "I just wanted you, Sh- Dazai-kun. But you were stubborn and selfish. You forced my hand!"
"You sound like him you know," Dazai murmurs, pushing Fyodor to his knees. "Mori died in my hands" he whispers, brushing his lips over the Russian mans, "for taking Odasaku from me"
Desperation seizes Fyodor a s he pleads with his companion— "Kolya…please…" a weak and pathetic display that goes unheeded. Nikolai stands behind Dazai watching silently, he tilts his head to the side, as though trying to hear a faraway sound, but remains otherwise, unmoving.
The bandaged man sighs mournfully. "There is nothing worth pursuing at the cost of prolonging a life of suffering Fedya."
"Why?" It's all the man can manage, his voice trapped by the vice-like embrace of Dazai's pale fingers.
Leaning over Fyodor, his breath dancing over the shell of his ear, peeking out from behind silky black hair, Dazai replies in a breathy murmur, "It is my nature, Fedya, to choose death" Dazai squeezes, and squeezes, and squeezes. Until Fyodors throat gives way with a sickening crack. "Without him, I will always, choose death."
Wet, garbled sounds escape as blood spills from Dostoevksy's mouth. Still Dazai squeezes, digging his fingers into the flesh until it tears. Until only a mess of meat and bone remain within his bloodied hands. Until the river of scarlett pouring over his skin and bandages slows to a sluggish crawl.
Dazai waits. For two, long minutes, he waits.
It takes Nikolai the entirety of those two minutes to realise that Dazai hadn't been certain. That the former mafia prodigy turned detective, had gone through with it not knowing if no-longer human would nullify crime and punishment in the end. It's a strange thing, to feel such comradery with this unusual man. How cruel, to finally be free, only to find the sky is empty.
Without a word Nikolai takes them deeper into the city, to the heart of carnage and death and Nakahara Chuuya.
He appears to be a macarbe mix between human and dragon. Grotesque wings spread from the torn meat of his back and angry red runes burn brightly on his pale skin, his eyes, great white voids. Blood trickles steadily from the mans mouth and his arms seem to be hanging at unnatural angles. Nikolai watches in awe as Dazai reaches out to the beast in the sky, there is no fear in those chocolate coloured eyes, just wells of melancholic sorrow. It's even more captivating to see said beast twitch in response to Dazai's silent beconning. Chuuya falls with a lightness most unfitting, landing gently in the waiting arms of Dazai Osamu. Something in Nikolai aches as the scene plays out. There is nothing worth pursuing at the cost of prolonging a life of suffering. Dazai's words echo in his head and it is with a monstrous visciousness that clarity crashes through Nikolai Gogol. What a cruel world this had been indeed.
"Sleep now Chuuya, you needn't wake again." He murmurs gently, pressing a kiss to hair that is all the wrong shades of red. Chuuya's face relaxes into something tranquil as Arahabaki returns to his slumber. Dazai feels Chuuyas breath come slower and slower, the space between each heartbeat, growing longer. "Go now Chuuya, the Flags will show you the way."
Dazai presses his back to a crumbling wall and slides to a sit, pulling Chuuya into his chest and casting his gaze to the sky, too blue for a day so dark. It's a pitiful sound that leaves him as his heart quite literally breaks, it's far from the painless and beautiful death he had sought for 22 years, but as his vision fades he thinks it's only fair he suffers one last time, for Chuuya.
Something round bumps into his leg as he stumbles through his last moments of lucidy and he musters the strength to drag his eyes down, just enough to see Nikolai Gogols head cleanly parted from his body. Somewhere in the haze of his failing mind, Dazai spares a thought for the clown, finally free from his cage.
Eyes, every shade of earth and soil, stare sightlessly into the cloudless sky. His last breath comes in the form of a ragged sigh.
****
Harukaze kōri o toku (East wind melts the ice).The muted 'tap' of a cane is the only sound to accompany the footsteps that come to stop next to a small white book. As it's tucked into the pocket of a brown trench, a single polaroid photo falls from within its pages. Scrawled messily on the back are some words, a little difficult to make out.
They read; Lupin Bar, Ango, Odasaku, Chuuya and Me.